When It Counts
by Harkpad
Summary: There's a disaster just waiting around the corner in their crazy lives, Phil just knows it. Clint has a near-miss on a mission and Phil is shaken by the whole thing. Steve is steady, though, and carries them through. Clint/Steve/Phil but pretty tame.


**A/N:** This takes place in the little AU where Steve/Phil/Clint are a threesome. I just needed some feels this week, so here they are. Thanks for reading.

* * *

Phil kept a little purple stress ball in his right hand pocket during debriefs for moments like this, but now it wasn't really helping, despite the beating it was taking. He fingered the rubber surface and squeezed, hard, and again, and again and again, but the tight feeling in his chest didn't dissipate and the sound of Fury's voice, usually welcome in its matter-of-factness, was more like fingernails on a chalkboard now.

"Coulson, I _asked_ if the HDYRA team was using the new ammunition R&amp;D was anticipating with their reverse engineering report two weeks ago," Fury said, his voice rough.

It had been a long afternoon for all of them, including the Director, but all of Phil's physical attention was on the ball in his pocket and all of his mental attention was on the vision of Clint being pulled bodily by the Hulk from a pile of rubble, blood streaming down his face, drenching it in a vulgar red blanket.

The ball in Phil's pocket reminded him of the night Fury brought Clint into SHIELD facilities for the first time eight years ago.

Clint, all of twenty-four with hollowed cheekbones and dark circles under his eyes and a torn t-shirt hanging off him loosely, had sat in a chair facing an interrogation table and Phil and Director Fury sat across from him, watching as he petulantly turned his chair from the table, reached into the pocket of his torn, muddy jeans, and pulled out a tiny rubber ball. He threw Phil a defiant smirk as Fury began to talk, and he bounced the ball against the wall, catching it with the hand not cuffed to the table. Fury ignored him, so Clint kept bouncing it, progressing from two-bounce throws to five and six bounces off impossible angles around the room, his smirk set on his face like it was a permanent fixture. Phil was sure Fury would throw him in the brig before he finished talking, but he just ignored the ball and made Clint an offer he couldn't refuse.

Phil was grateful for Fury's patience that night, but now it took his fist slamming on his desk to pull Phil back to the conversation.

"Dammit Phil, we need the details on the fight and then you can go to him. You know this."

Phil felt a shudder run down his spine and he straightened in his chair, nodding. He felt his cell phone in his pocket, and Steve knew to text him as soon as there was any news on Clint. Phil was jealous of Steve getting to wait in the ER while Phil was what felt like miles away ten floors up in Fury's office, but he had a report to give (and he was a fucking professional), so he cleared his throat and nodded. "Sorry, sir. Yes, they were using the new ammunition and we've got trouble." He went on to describe how one HYDRA team of six stood up to the Avengers in a way no one had managed yet, causing the destruction of two city blocks (and one team member) before they could contain them, and one of them got away under some sort of sensor repelling device.

The report took more than an hour and Fury wrapped it up with a heavy sigh and a "Let me know when you know something about Clint's condition," before Phil nodded and left in an undignified rush.

He headed straight for the elevator and sagged against the wall when the doors shut. He loosened his tie and closed his eyes, but he could only see the Hulk laying Clint gently down on the street, blood flowing from the head wound, his arm resting at the wrong angle on the ground, his breathing so labored it seemed like his chest must have been crushed. The medics were fast, though, rushing up and taking over, pushing Phil back, slipping a mask over Clint's wet face and loading him onto a gurney as Steve limped up and gripped Phil's arm tightly.

Now the elevator doors opened to medical and Phil was met by Steve immediately; he must have been waiting to pull Phil into a strong embrace.

"He's going to be okay," he reported gently, and Phil couldn't help his knees buckling a little at the news.

He was so tired, and he had been so sure that _this_ was the disaster that always seemed to hover around the corner of their lives. Steve held him up, a soft chuckle against Phil's chin, and he guided him to a chair before he knelt down in front of him with his hands on Phil's thighs, meeting Phil's gaze with his steadfast blue eyes and nodding.

"It looked a lot worse than it was, Phil. A long laceration across his forehead, dust in his throat causing the labored breath. His arm is busted," Steve said, running his hands down both of Phil's legs as if he could warm the chill that had settled in Phil's chest. "That's why he was unconscious – it was a really bad break and he'll need surgery on it – but they anticipate a full recovery. Heavy bruising all over and he'll be cranky as hell, I imagine, but he'll be okay."

Phil nodded, trying to catch his own breath, feeling the adrenaline that had been coursing through his system for the last two hours wear off in a rush, exhaustion settling into his arms and legs as if they weren't even connected to his torso, and he dropped his chin to his chest for a moment before looking up and meeting Steve's worried gaze. "Okay. Good. Okay," he said, taking a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs in relief. The smell of antiseptic and hospital detergent assaulted him unexpectedly and he coughed hard, and Steve moved out of sight for a minute and came back with a paper cup filled with tepid water. He swallowed it with a grimace but managed a tired grin as Steve took it and tossed it perfectly into a trash can about six feet away.

"You guys have been playing Paper Toss during briefings," Phil said, raising an eyebrow at Steve's perfect aim.

Steve shrugged and grinned. "Maybe sometimes."

"Can we see him?" Phil asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

"In a bit. They put a temporary setting on his arm, kept him knocked out for it. That's why I figured I could let you get through your meeting before filling you in. Natasha and the others headed back to the Tower to clean up."

Steve pulled himself into a chair next to Phil and they waited in silence until Dr. Molly Davel finally stuck her head casually out of the room Clint was in and nodded. "You guys can come back. He's awake."

Phil wondered who moved faster, him or Steve, but they both entered the room together as Molly grumbled, "And yes, he can go home. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at ten. You guys know the routine."

They did know, and Phil also knew that Molly wouldn't send many other patients home in Clint's condition. She understood that Clint would have plenty of support, though, and that Avengers' Tower had a decent medical center that would do in a pinch. She also understood Clint's stubborn quest to stay in medical the shortest time possible, but she didn't put up with his bullshit when he was forced to stay.

She just waved off Phil's "Thanks," and trudged out of the room shaking her head, mumbling "It's Barton. We don't want him here either."

Phil laughed until he saw Clint, when he had to blink away the image of blood covering Clint's face hours earlier.

Clint was sitting up in the bed, arm in a sling, a thin bandage wrapped around his head and his hair sticking up in spikes around it. His skin wasn't pallid anymore, but Phil thought he still looked a little washed out, and his eyes were bleary as he took in the sight of Phil and Steve. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, clearly ready to bolt as soon as his men came to get him. He wavered, though, moving too fast, and Steve reached a hand out to steady him.

"Slow down," Steve said, and Phil watched as Clint took a deep breath and nodded.

Phil and Steve each took a side; Phil stood at his casted elbow, and Steve wrapped his hand around Clint's other bicep. They walked slowly, shuffling down the hallway to the elevator, and when the doors shut, Clint leaned heavily into Steve. With the three of them the dynamic was pretty clear, and the physical comfort/teddy bear was always Steve. Phil did the same thing when he was down, but right now he wished Clint was leaning on _him_, and he moved in close, feeling Clint's body heat and hovering. "You really are stubborn about medical," Phil said, reaching over to rub the back of Clint's neck.

"Mmmm," came the reply. "I c'n sleep better at home."

It was true. Wedged between Steve and Phil, Clint could sleep as many hours as the other men could stand to stay in bed, even when he was banged up. The second one of them moved, Clint would wake, grumbling about being abandoned. Phil knew it was close to the truth.

Steve looked over at Phil. "Did you get some pain meds for him?"

"Yes. Dr. Davel made sure I had them."

"She likes me," Clint mumbled.

"You can tell by the way she threw you out," Steve said, rolling his eyes.

"'xactly."

They made their way to the car and Clint promptly slept, huddled in the back seat against Steve's chest, all the way back to the Tower. Phil drove, but he couldn't stop glancing in the mirror. By the time they got to their floor, Clint was scowling and breathing a little too hard for Phil's comfort, and when he stumbled as he stepped onto the tile in the kitchen, Phil put his hand to Clint's cheek as Steve practically held him up. His eyes were clenched shut in pain. "Hey," Phil said softly, "You've got an hour before you can have more meds. You can't eat anything past ten tonight. How about a shower and then some soup before you sleep?"

"Not hungry. Can I just lay down?" Clint's voice was gravelly and laced with exhaustion.

Phil stroked his cheek and frowned, but Steve nodded.

"Let's just get him to bed, Phil. We can clean him up a little before we head back to medical tomorrow."

They led him to the bedroom, and Phil methodically stripped him of his sweats and t-shirt while Steve held him up. Clint winced and couldn't help a soft whimper when Phil pulled his t-shirt off, and Phil could see dark bruises forming clearly on his chest, shoulders, and legs. He drew a sharp breath at the sight, his mind flashing back again to Clint's limp body being pulled from the rubble.

Clint reached out for him gently."I'm okay, Phil," he whispered, as if he knew what Phil was thinking.

Phil gritted his teeth and nodded tightly. "Sleep," he responded, and Steve nudged Clint over to the bed and helped him stretch out and pull the covers up. Phil couldn't help imagining the white sheet of their bed being the white sheet of an accident scene, and he shuddered bodily and pulled his arms close to his chest. Clint was fine. He was here, and he'd have surgery tomorrow and ride out the pain of the bruises, and he was fine. Phil couldn't seem to get his brain to accept that, though.

Steve looked up and frowned, and he reached out for Phil and pulled him his chest. "Get changed and lay down with him, I'll keep an eye on the time and get his meds. You should rest with him, okay?"

He was watching Phil carefully, and, as usual, seemed to be reading him like a book. Phil nodded and went into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He pulled a washcloth off the shelf and ran the hottest water he could stand over it before pressing it to his face. It was as if the hot heat undid a scab, and suddenly he was shaking, breathing hard, and sinking to the tile floor as the fear and worry and tension of the last five hours seeped out of him. His breaths were ragged and he clenched his knees to his chest, holding them tightly.

"Phil?" Steve called through the door.

He looked up and drew a clearer breath. There was no need to break down, really. He was just tired, but he couldn't stop seeing shattered rocks and concrete part as the Hulk pulled roughly – Phil clenched his eyes shut again and ducked his head as he heard the bathroom door open gently. He felt Steve's hand rest on his back and start to rub circles.

"Hey," Steve whispered. "You're going to be okay."

Phil felt himself shift as Steve spoke softly and pressed his hand against Phil's back. Steve's body was solid, and rubble would be hard pressed to do much damage if Steve stood against it; the serum strength would hold the pounding at bay and the bruises would fade quickly instead of mottling, pulsing in pain, turning yellow, and fading after a week. Steve could stand against a crumbling wall, and Phil knew it, and was grateful.

"Come on, let's get you to bed, too. You're wiped out," Steve said, shifting his hand to grip Phil's arm.

They both stood, and Phil took a moment to sink into Steve's arms. "He looked like a bloody ragdoll," he whispered, the words sneaking out without consideration. "The way Hulk was holding him," he added. Steve tightened his grip on Phil, and Phil realized he had started trembling. "Dammit," he said, ducking his head against Steve's chest. "This is not new to me. I've seen him in worse shape and he's lying in the next room sleeping. I'm not helping anything."

Steve pushed Phil back a little so he was gazing at him intently, and he ran his hand through Phil's hair. "You're not _hurting_ anything, either, you know. He knows the routine and he's waiting it out until we can give him some pain relief. Then he'll sleep and go in tomorrow and get the arm taken care of. But if _you_ need to do this, then do it, Phil. He scared the crap out of us today. You especially because you saw him get pulled out. It's okay to take some time."

Days like today, Phil thought, their strange little threesome made sense.

If you had asked him three years ago if he'd be in a threesome with Clint and Captain America? Well, he'd have signed your papers to the psych ward. But now? Now he was in it and it made sense. It wasn't really Captain America who was standing here telling him to take a moment, to let himself feel the fear and ride it out. This was Steve Rogers, who knew fear, who knew loss. And Steve was the one who had held Clint steady through Phil's death and return, and then still saw Phil as someone he could love and look after and let in.

Steve was someone who knew how hard losing control was for Phil, who saw how hard he gripped it on a day-to-day basis, how he shielded himself against chaos and fear with his suits and his planning and his own protective tendencies. Steve saw it, and then he gave permission for Phil to release it when he needed to, and that – that made sense. Phil shuddered against Steve's chest and then looked up as Steve pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Okay," Phil said, stepping back. "Okay. I'm just – I'm just tired."

Steve smiled with his eyes and nodded. He led Phil back to the bed and Phil curled himself against Clint's back. He reached out and ran his hand down Clint's arm, feeling the warmth, the stillness.

"You gonna stay with me, Phil?" Clint mumbled into his pillow, and Phil pressed a kiss to Clint's arm as Steve pulled his fingers through Phil's hair.

"Yeah," Phil answered. "I'm with you."

"It was a near miss," Clint said, and the words were thick, heavy.

"We were tough when it counted," Steve said, and he stretched out behind Phil and reached his arm across both of them, holding Phil along with Clint.

Despite the closeness, Steve pressed against Phil's back and Phil's chest pressed against Clint's back, Phil felt like he could finally breathe again, and he filled his lungs with the familiar scent of Clint's skin and their bedroom, and he felt Steve's breath ghosting along his neck.

They were tough when it counted. All of them together, and that made _sense_ to Phil, so he let himself go, and he slept.


End file.
